


You Give Me That Lovin' Feelin'

by Lostinfantasies38



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Rare Pairings, Romance, Tumblr Prompt, last chapter only has explicit content, probably gonna give you cavities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22501162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lostinfantasies38/pseuds/Lostinfantasies38
Summary: My part of the 14 Days Of DA Lovers Prompts by SchaRoux!I will list additional tags and pairings as I finish them and post!  I'm using the opportunity to show some love to some rare pairs.  And trying my hand at a few new and more well-known ships, too!  I hope you guys like them!  It's a deviation from my usual cup of angst.Let me know what you think - I love feedback! With that said, let the 14 days commence!
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford, Alistair/Female Trevelyan, Alistair/Morrigan, Bethany Hawke/Nathaniel Howe, Female Inquisitor/Varric Tethras, Josephine Montilyet/Cullen Rutherford, Lace Harding/Female Inquisitor
Comments: 141
Kudos: 62





	1. Day 1 - Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen/Alistair  
> Part 1 of 2 - Part 2 on Day 10

**Token of My Affection**

Sighing wearily, Cullen eased the door of his office closed, engaging the lock the Inquisitor insisted he install for such moments. Leaning against the rough wood, he muttered angrily under his breath at his own ineptitude. The headache he suffered plagued him all morning throughout inspections and forced him to forego his training session. He learned through experience that too much activity would exacerbate it, finding him vomiting in the nearest secluded corner shortly after and he couldn’t risk exposure or the frailty that followed these episodes.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the man swallowed thickly, shoving his disappointment under the rock that housed it. He was weak. The Inquisition deserved someone stronger to lead the army, yet the women he worked alongside continuously overrode his objections and protestations that he rescind his position. They didn’t understand how broken he truly was - words alone could never paint an accurate picture of Kinloch Hold and the suffering he endured. Nor the decade in Kirkwall that shamed him most of all. 

His guilt was immeasurable. His desire to do better, to _be_ a better man, was constantly thrown into question by his inability to get a handle on his addiction. Damn the Chantry’s use of lyrium. He would never be free - not completely. The dreams of helping people as a child, begging to join the Order, leashed him to a system that controlled those sworn to protect. Chaining him with a blue substance that burned bright in his veins and sang more beautifully than Val Royeaux’s choir in his mind. Ruining that idealistic boy and leaving a shattered man in his stead. 

_Maker’s breath._

Pushing off the door, Cullen circled around the chamber, locking the side entrances to ward off interruptions. The sun was setting on the mountain fortress and he intended to call it an early night, for once. Shucking his armor with methodical precision, as in all things, he hung the breastplate on its stand, laying the vambraces, gloves, and gorget on a nearby table, and draped his mantle over his chair before sinking blissfully onto the seat. 

Smirking pleasantly, Cullen noted the kettle perched on the stone trivet at the edge of his desk with a clean cup on a matching saucer. The kitchen staff were well aware that he liked to unwind with a cup of tea before bed, but some evenings, the ritual wasn’t solely for pleasure. Tonight was one such night.

Calloused fingers slid across cool, smooth wood, opening the second drawer on the right to remove the box hidden within and place it on the desktop. Lately, as the symptoms of his withdrawal intensified, small care packages of tea blends mysteriously arrived in his office. Cullen wasn’t sure how. He was usually present, unless it was during morning training, but even then he had a clear view of the entrances to his tower and he rarely dined in the Great Hall with the others of the Inner Circle. Yet even so, they appeared as if by magic with little notes labeling the blends’ specific purpose.

Night sweats. Insomnia. Headaches. Muscle pain. And little warnings, if necessary. “Do not mix ‘muscle pain’ with ‘night sweats.’” “Do not pace the battlements after a cup of ‘insomnia’ - you’ll fall over them.” That warning always plucked a soft snort from him. 

The handwriting looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it since the notes were tiny, altering the script enough to throw him off. He’d wracked his brain for weeks, as soon as the packages started trickling in, and quizzed the soldiers on the battlements for possible clues. None of them ever saw anything of note and the kitchen staff were positively baffled when he questioned them. The cook only admitted to ensuring he had a piping hot kettle and a fresh cup every evening without fail, but assured him she never supplied tea. 

It was surely someone from the Inner Circle, but none of them seemed likely candidates. Leliana was more of the ‘stab your problem’ variety and Lady Josephine’s hands overflowed with the unenviable task of diplomacy. The Inquisitor was in a relationship with Blackwall and was not the type for secret gifts, if anything, she would revel in the recognition of her efforts. And Cassandra...no, absolutely not. Even as a bleeding heart with a penchant for detestable romance novels, there was no way _that_ would ever come to pass. 

Releasing the brass catch of the lid, Cullen swung it open on its hinges. Instantly freezing, one hand tightened around the wood and a surprised gasp passed his lips. A red rose, freshly cut and trimmed of thorns, adorned the tops of the glass jars storing the varied blends. Glancing furtively around his office despite being alone, his heart rate increased as trembling fingers carefully picked up the bloom and brought the velvety petals to his nose. The last person he could recall gifting him a flower, of any sort, was his younger sister Rosalie a few days prior to leaving home. But he’d never received one as a token of romantic intent. If that’s what it was - it seemed unlikely that anyone would believe him worthy of pursuit.

Setting the rose aside, his golden gaze caught sight of the paper hidden behind the colored glass. It was an actual letter, not a small note that usually accompanied the gifts and he snatched it with a flurry of excitement, only to scold himself for getting his hopes up. This was surely a platonic missive from his anonymous herbalist. 

Unfolding the parchment with hurried enthusiasm, Cullen ignored his own advice to remain calm, unable to slow his racing pulse. Bold, sure strokes in black ink practically leapt off the page as he devoured the message.

_Cullen,_

_I fear I will be gone by the time you discover this. I know you’ve been trying to ferret out who has been leaving you gifts, but hadn’t_ _quite_ _figured it out. Surprise - it’s me!_

_I do not personally suffer from lyrium withdrawal, no, but I am familiar with insomnia, nightmares, and headaches. So, I thought I could at least do something to help alleviate your discomfort._

_The paths of our lives have not been easy and, I’m sure I can speak for us both, not at all what we dreamed as boys in Bournshire. You were my only friend then and despite all the horror we’ve been through, I still consider you such._

_It probably seems silly, which is why I’m writing it down and leaving it for you to find after I depart like a coward, but I always hoped for..._ _more_ _than friendship. Of course, I wasn’t sure if that even appealed to you, so I never said anything. Here I am, almost twenty years later, still nervous as a maid and unable to say this to your face. Like a man - like you deserve._

 _You’ve been through_ _so much_ _and I only want to ease your pain, in whatever insignificant way that I can. Whether it be tea or friendship or, if Andraste favors me, something even more meaningful._

_I will be back in a couple of weeks once our scouting mission is complete. If you want to...talk, I will be available. If I’ve gone and made a mess of things, just pretend this letter doesn’t exist and we’ll go back to beating each other senseless in the sparring ring like old times. I’ll even let you win!_

_Alistair_

With a soft exhale, Cullen collapsed against the back of the chair, running a hand unsteadily through his hair freeing a few strands. That...was unexpected. But _not_ unwelcome. He’d merely resigned himself years ago to accept that Alistair would not appreciate or reciprocate his feelings. Once Alistair left the Templars and rescued him months later from the Circle Tower, they were both different. Changed by war, scarred by trauma, and he regretted the vitriol he spewed in the depths of blind hatred.

Years passed, but he never forgot his one-time friend and worried how he fared following the Blight, but the Wardens guarded their secrets jealously and he was never able to learn anything about the man who stood alongside the Hero of Ferelden and slew the Archdemon. Until, by a miracle, he strode confidently through Skyhold’s gates on the heels of the Inquisitor. 

The blow to his gut wrenched the air from his lungs when their eyes met as the handsome Warden passed through the courtyard. Thinking back, Cullen realized he wasn’t the only one who held that gaze longer than propriety deemed acceptable between men. Standing before him as the Commander of the Inquisition’s army in the war room later that day nearly brought him to his knees. Never was he so grateful for his armor to guard him in the face of that warm gaze and rich voice matured with age.

Everything about Alistair improved with time. From his astounding good looks that as boys was youthful and fresh, now rugged and chiseled, to his sense of humor. His capacity for forgiveness, also knew no bounds, evidenced by the blasted man seeking him out after dinner the first night as though nothing had changed. Never once mentioning Kinloch or Kirkwall, instead reminiscing about his antics in the monastery that saw him relegated to kitchen duty on a near full-time basis and pulling real, true laughter from the stoic Commander for the first time in years.

From then on, they could be found sparring frequently, usually in the evening when the courtyard was quiet and less likely to attract a crowd. Dancing around each other like old times, jesting and teasing as they fought to find an opening, yet their skills had vastly improved over the last decade and locating chinks in their defenses was rare. Most of their spars ended in draws, except for the handful of times Cullen became too distracted by the lines of sweat beading across Alistair’s chest or the light playing in his hair enhancing the natural strawberry tones. Of course, the Warden also ended up splayed across the stone a time or two, his hazel eyes unfocused with a small smirk lifting the corner of his mouth, evolving into mortification as Cullen extended a hand to help him rise. 

Glancing at the rose on the desktop, a fond smile curved his scarred lips and he realized he shouldn’t be surprised. In their own way, they’d skirted the conversation, which on more than one occasion, loomed cavernous when they were together - leading to awkward pauses and embarrassed tells until one of them bowed out gracefully and vanished. 

Maker, what fools they were.

Life was too short to ignore or deny what was right in front of their faces. If he didn’t care about Alistair as more than a friend, then why did he spend nearly eight years after the Blight trying to track him down, crushed by every failed attempt for a crumb of news? Why else would Alistair come to him, of all people, for companionship while in residence of the massive castle housing others far more interesting than himself? It wasn’t solely the bonds of childhood friendship - it was because they _cared_ about each other.

If anyone could understand his past and not judge him for the mistakes he made in the wake of psychological torture, it would be the man who once told him to stop being a pompous ass and dumped an entire bucket of dirty dish water over his head. A bark of laughter echoed in the silent office at the memory. Alistair always did know how to get him out of his own head when he turned melancholy. 

Trust Alistair to be the one to make the first move, too. Cullen flushed as he gingerly picked up the token and twirled it deftly between his fingers, enjoying the heady fragrance of the bloom wafting through the air. He had definite plans to speak to Alistair upon his return and he knew what he would say to guarantee that his position was clear. 

“I’m fairly certain that roses just became my favorite flower.” 

  
  



	2. Day 2- Hand Holding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair/Morrigan  
> Part 1 of 3 Part 2 on Day 11

**Dark Allure**

Alistair knew when he joined the Grey Wardens that he would spend the majority of his life in the Deep Roads, but he never expected them to be so heinous. Bursting at the seams with darkspawn, which was bad enough, but the ancient stone passages also teemed with deepstalkers that spat poison and sucked the liquified remains of their prey through siphon-like jaws. 

And what cave would be complete without spiders? The cavernous tunnels of the Deep Roads did not disappoint there, either. They literally crawled with giant spiders that put Morrigan’s shapeshifting arachnid to shame. Giant spiders, _poisonous_ giant spiders, and _Blighted_ giant spiders rounded out the trifecta of his worst nightmares. He could handle scores of darkspawn, complete with ogres and battalions of shrieks, but the Maker-damned spiders were his one weakness.

They’d been underground for a couple of months now, acting as errand Wardens for Prince Bhelen in his bid to secure his father’s throne. Hopefully, the mad Paragon they searched for was only a day or two out from their current position. Andraste, he prayed that was the case. The sooner they found the smith and returned to Orzammar, the sooner they’d depart for a surface full of fresh air. Alistair swore he’d never complain about the rain or the cold ever again, if he could just get a decent lungful of clean mountain oxygen.

A familiar scuttling echoed in the tunnel ahead and he suppressed a humiliating whimper. Blasted eight-legged abominations. Without thinking, Alistair grasped Leliana’s hand behind him, knowing she too feared the creatures, hoping to use the excuse of comforting her to hide his own desperate need for encouragement in the pitch-black passage.

Her breath hitched sharply behind him, but she didn’t speak as the scurrying of too many legs crept closer, forcing the entire party to hold their collective breath to avoid drawing their attention. Alistair noted her increased pulse through his sword roughened index finger, that in his hurried grab splayed across her wrist. In a calming gesture, he soothingly rubbed his digit over the pounding vein, to silently communicate his understanding.

“You fool! Stop fondling me!” 

Morrigan’s waspish hiss in his ear almost catapulted him through the miles of rock over his head and he barely contained his startled shout, dropping her hand like a hot coal.

Shooting her a glare she wasn’t able to see in the dark, Alistair groused. “Why didn’t you say something sooner, witch? I thought you were Leliana.”

The woman tsked condescendingly and he could imagine the eye roll that accompanied her patronizing attitude. “So, you feel up all the women in our party, is that it? You’re even worse than I thought.”

Before he could even formulate a retort, Leliana whispered harshly a few steps behind them. “Will you both shut up? We don’t want to draw their attention.”

The group fell into tense silence once more, straining to glean if the sounds that echoed in the stone caverns headed closer or further away. Alistair, meanwhile, was more distracted by Morrigan’s proximity, but he dared not budge as metal armor creaked deafeningly in the stillness. He attempted to refocus his concentration on the task at hand, to distract himself from paying mind to the heat of her presence, and the surprising softness of her skin when he mistakenly touched her.

One of the creatures veered their direction, and he instinctively threw out his arm to shield those at his back, his sword arm reaching for the hilt of his weapon, ready to draw it, if necessary. But the spider changed course, following its brethren down a side passage that led it away from the weary group.

Releasing a collective breath of relief, Morrigan relit the mage light, and they dashed through the tunnels that were temporarily free of things wishing to devour them. After hours of fighting darkspawn and sneaking through the shadows whenever possible to save their strength, the party stumbled upon Hespith – Branka’s lover. Twisted and befouled by the taint into something worse than a ghoul, her cryptic warnings of the Paragon’s misdeeds did not prepare them for what awaited. 

The squishy tissue that grew across the ancient stone, muffling his clanging steps made him nauseous, reminding Alistair of the horror of the Circle tower and filling his gut with dread. Tiptoeing through the corridor, he peered around the corner as they neared the end of the passage, leaping back in shock with the rest of the party, staring in horror at the broodmother. 

A mass of teats and tentacles. A creature who once had a name, Laryn, but the darkspawn stole all she was, cruelly mutating her into a birthing factory. This was the fate of any woman – human, elf, dwarf – captured by darkspawn and it made his blood run cold.

A hand snatched his with a sharp gasp and he glanced down to find Morrigan’s slim fingers clutching him for support. Arching an eyebrow, his gaze flicked to her face, noting her wide-eyed fright with no small amount of surprise. Alistair’s chest tightened oddly as the stoic witch lowered her guard and revealed true emotion. Normally, he would have jeered her about the slip of her mask – but not here, not now. Not with the monstrosity before them and the sinister knowledge that it could happen to her or Leliana. 

The tendril of fear that snaked up his spine at the very idea of such a fate befalling the witch astonished him. He realized in that moment, no matter how much they disagreed, he would never wish that upon anyone – not even Morrigan. Alistair squeezed her hand reassuringly which pulled her from her reverie and called attention to their overly familiar touch. 

Morrigan scoffed, yanking her hand from his grasp with irritation, an angry flush highlighting her sharp cheekbones. “Not a word, Alistair, or so help me –”

The warrior interrupted her with a shake of his head and a warm smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Morrigan.” His sincerity stunned her into silence, leaving her mouth agape as he grabbed his weapons and followed behind the others to rush the broodmother. 

It would be a long trek to find Paragon Branka and return to Orzammar without additional complications – he really couldn’t afford to be distracted. By Morrigan’s hands, of all things! Yet, even in the midst of battle, his eyes were drawn to slender fingers confidently twirling a stave. Hands he now knew were slightly calloused from the wood, but retained their softness in spite of daily battles. Cool to the touch and thrumming with the power of the Veil in her palms that tingled along his templar aura. 

He smirked to himself when he noticed her own gaze landing on his broader hands, hoisting his sword and shield with ease, observing the power in his fingers that allowed him to maintain his grip in the fiercest fights. Hands that _she_ now knew were gentle and consoling, despite their capacity for brute strength. Freckled from the sun and roughened by training, they were definitely a source of fascination for the irascible witch.

Once the broodmother and her hive of spawn were dead, Morrigan quickly checked them all for injuries, saving Alistair for last. She strode purposefully to him, but there was a wariness in her eyes as she regarded him that he’d never seen. 

“You are not injured, ‘twould seem.” 

She spoke softly in the sudden silence following the din of battle and he tried not to read into it. Morrigan simply did not wish to lure additional creatures to their location – there was no other reason. Alistair shrugged in response to her question, not feeling the need to bother her with the minor scratch on his shoulder, but she noticed his grimace at the movement and squinted reprovingly at his omission. 

Muttering under her breath, she laid a hand on the wound, flushing his body with a cool rush of healing magic. Observing her from his periphery, he watched the faint blue glow dance on her sharp features and studied the way her fingers fluttered minutely as she worked.

“Stop it,” Morrigan mumbled irritably.

Alistair feigned innocence. “Stop what? I’m sitting here like a good patient. I wasn’t even talking until right now.”

Yellow eyes bored into hazel as the subtle light faded around them, his shoulder apparently healed. “You know very well what. Stop staring at my hands. ‘Tis most distracting.”

“And here I thought it was my hands distracting you during the fight,” he smirked. “Not where my eyes happened to land. How could you have known that I might have been paying attention, if you weren’t observing me, too, hmm?”

Scoffing, Morrigan took a large step back and crossed her arms haughtily over her chest. “You are insufferable.”

Sheathing his sword, Alistair shrugged with affected boredom. “I may be insufferable, Morrigan, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Deny it all you want, but we both know the truth.” 

Snagging his shield from where it fell on the ground, he slung it over his back and murmured for her ears alone. “Besides, for a cranky witch who grew up in a swamp, they’re surprisingly soft and gentle… when they want to be, that is.” 

His hazel eyes pinned her to the spot, both of them aware he did not speak solely of her extremities, satisfaction coursing through him to see her rendered speechless. Grinning, Alistair nodded in silent thanks for the healing magic, regrouping with the Warden and Leliana, to continue their push and finish this mad quest. It seemed the remainder of the mission and the return trip back to Orzammar would be very interesting and he suddenly didn’t mind staying underground a little longer. 


	3. Day 3 - Bow and Arrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany Hawke/Nathaniel Howe  
> Part 1 of 2 Part 2 on Day 7

**Instruction**

“Ugh! I’ll never get the hang of this.” 

Bethany placed the end of the smooth wood on the ground and spun the bow. The trainer turned and shrugged to the dark-haired Senior Warden leaning against the wall of the Keep observing the archery lesson. Nathaniel Howe jerked his head in quiet dismissal, kicking off the smooth stone and walking towards the spirited Hawke.

A recent addition to their ranks, rescued from certain death in the Deep Roads by Warden Stroud, she surprised everyone when she survived the Joining. But now, six months after her induction, Nate recognized her stubbornness was her greatest strength and sometimes, her biggest weakness.

The Wardens saw all their men and women trained in a full range of combat, especially mages, because darkspawn wouldn’t stop and patiently wait for a depleted mana pool to resupply. Bethany showed promise with dual wielding daggers and would soon graduate to short swords, but greatswords and bulky shields proved beyond her. Since she seemed adept in rogue style techniques, the trainers recently began teaching the mage archery.

In truth, the young woman was abysmal. But that was to be expected. One didn’t learn how to walk as a babe without falling every few steps. Proficiency in any new skill was slow, yet Nate didn’t think that was Bethany’s problem and he aimed to discover the root cause of her struggle.

Sidling next to her, Nathaniel nudged her teasingly with his shoulder. The mage’s lips quirked, her brown eyes flicking to his briefly, before falling to gaze at the ground with a small sigh. Her fingertips fluttered mindlessly along the curved wood, caressing the etchings carved along its length, and Nate wished to be the object of her delicate attention.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?” 

His deep voice filled the space between them and Bethany flushed slightly, tucking an errant strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. They stood in companionable silence for a few heartbeats. Nate had patience for days and could wait her out, which the woman already knew. Finally, she blew out a nervous breath and leveled him with a stare befitting her surname.

“You’ll think me silly. I-I just feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

Nate chuckled. “You? The woman who rains fire from the sky hotter than lava, yet can also heal the worst wounds to save a fellow Warden?” She flushed again and warmth bloomed in his broad chest. 

“I…guess I didn’t think of it like that.” Bethany shot him a shy smile and he couldn’t help answering in kind.

Clearing his throat, he murmured, “Well, you should. You’re a formidable mage and we appreciate your talent. You’ve made great strides with blades and should be proud of what you have accomplished…especially since this life was not wholly of your choosing.”

The liveliness in her eyes dimmed and she idly fiddled with the hem of her sleeve. “No, I didn’t choose this, you’re right. But…I think I can do some good with the unique position I find myself in. I don’t have to worry about being an apostate anymore and I need not fear the Templars or the Circle. That’s more than most mages can say, isn’t it?” 

The man returned her tentative smile with a brilliant one of his own. __ “That is true, indeed. As for the weapons training, we only want you to be able to defend yourself in multiple disciplines, should you ever need them to fall back on.” Bethany nodded biting her lip, furtively glancing anywhere but him and Nate smirked. “Although you know that already. So, why don’t you tell me why you really don’t like archery?”

Lifting the bow, she stared wistfully at it, plucking the string with her dominant hand. “My sister…is an archer. Always made it look so easy, like you do, as though she was born with a bow and arrow in her hand. I thought it would come naturally to me, yet every time I hold one, I feel clunky and inelegant by comparison.” 

Nate’s eyebrows met his hairline. Bethany Hawke – inelegant? There was no way on Andraste’s sacred pyre that was possible, but he clamped his mouth shut to keep the words from spilling past his lips.

Peering at him, she pleaded from under hooded eyes. “Could you teach me to use the bow? I know you’d be a much better instructor than Alec and I’d rather learn from the best.” 

Nate grinned smugly, well aware that he was the best archer in the ranks, unable to resist basking in the praise as he teased. “You mean that you don’t appreciate the way Alec teaches?” 

Bethany faced him fully and Nate’s mouth ran dry when she twined her slender fingers through his calloused ones. “Alec isn’t the best teacher. He stands off to the side and tells me what to do, but that isn’t working for me. I prefer a more…hands on approach. I think I would benefit from you standing behind and…directing me. Showing me where I should…put my hands, how tightly to hold the bow, how far to pull the string before it…snaps.”

The furious blush caused by her bold words was a perfect backdrop for the flame of desire burning in her gaze, rendering him momentarily speechless. Swallowing hard to ease his suddenly dry mouth, Nate collected himself enough to respond.

“Maker…Bethany, you keep saying things like that and we won’t even make it to training.”

Snagging her lip between her pearly teeth, she lowered her eyes with uncertainty, her next words whispered and contrite. “I’m sorry. Was that too much? I-I had a friend in Kirkwall who used to share her…romance novels with me and the women were always a bit…forward.”

Cupping her face with his free hand, Nate grinned to dispel her sudden reticence. “No, it wasn’t too much. I liked it very much, in fact. Remind me to send your friend a thank you letter and perhaps scour the Amaranthine market for more books!”

The young woman blinked rapidly while digesting his words, a pleasant stain blossoming on her cheeks, and a hint of a smile lifting the corners of her lips. “Why, Nate, that…almost sounds like you would cross a line with a subordinate.”

What was it they said in Antiva? In for a penny – in for a pound?  _ Fuck mate, might as well. If she sets your arse on fire, you’ll have your answer. _

Closing the gap between them, Nathaniel smiled confidently, drinking in her hopeful expression. “You could never be a subordinate. You’re too blasted stubborn and full of life to stand in the shadow of any man. And while I fear for my hide, I will go out on a limb here and say, yes. For you, Bethany Hawke, I would face a hundred Archdemons even though I know you are capable of killing them on your own. You’ll always have me and my bow.”

Smiling brightly, she squeezed his hand. “Is that a promise, Nathaniel Howe?”

His lips descended upon her soft, plump mouth in reply. Releasing the weapon with a clatter to clutch his jerkin, she molded herself against him and he responded by wrapping strong arms around her petite frame. The kiss was pure and warm, his heart fit to bursting in the wake of her contented hum vibrating through his skin. When they finally parted liquid sunshine thrummed in his veins and from the stunned expression on her face, Nate knew she felt it, too.

Picking up the discarded bow with ease, he slid directly behind the nubile woman, nudging his knee between her soft thighs to spread them in the appropriate stance. Strong, calloused fingers wrapped around her leaner hands, expertly demonstrating where to grip while murmuring instructions regarding how tightly to grasp the wood and how to gauge the proper resistance of the string. 

Glancing at her from his superior height, his crystalline gaze met her mischievous one with a broad grin. A trill of delight echoed off the stone walls and he smiled into her obsidian locks at her enthusiasm. Her vitality was captivating. Combined with an effortless natural beauty, tender heart, and impressive magical talent – Bethany Hawke was perfection. And he was one lucky bastard.

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Day 4 - Napping Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric Tethras/Female Trevelyan  
> Part 1 of 3 Part 2 on Day 6

**Safeguard**

Warm and spicy, comforting and strong. Leather and parchment, wood-smoke and musk. A fragrance coiled around her heart, much like the man it belonged to currently coiled around her. She smiled into the crook of his arm tucked under her head to spare her cheek the press of the ground. The weight of his other secure around her middle, large hand splayed comfortingly across her stomach. The warmth emanating from his touch flared through her body, burning hot and not as hot as she would like, at the same time.

This was the only place in all of Thedas she felt safe – sheltered in his embrace, tucked against his stocky frame. Varric would let nothing happen to her. Whenever he was nearby, Charise dropped her guard, lowered her inhibitions, and trusted someone else to take care of her for once. It was beautifully freeing and supremely intoxicating, rescinding that level of hyper-vigilant control. 

The ambient noise of the oasis waterfall bled into the sun-kissed heat of their tent as little puffs of his breath ghosted her neck. Charise snuggled closer to him, her heart overflowing at the sound of his pleased hum. Broad fingers snaked up her abdomen, dwarfing her smaller digits in his grasp, and gently squeezed. An unspoken promise, reassuring and affirming. A soft smile graced her lips as sleep descended – protected, shielded, loved, at last.


	5. Day 5 - Love Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen/Josephine  
> Part 1 of 2 Part 2 on Day 9

**Inamorato**

[def (n): a man who loves or is loved; male sweetheart or lover]

Buried amidst his afternoon reports was a folded sheet of cream parchment. Cullen unfolded the paper, expecting another missive or requisition request, but his curiosity was instantly piqued at the sight of delicate script in lovely cerulean ink.

_Commander,_

_I hesitate to be so bold, but what I have been unable to say in person, hopefully I can say here._

_Truly, it is a wonder that you have never caught me staring at your profile, entranced by the light playing in your golden hair, hoping for a glimpse of amber eyes reminiscent of the finest brandy. One too many times, when our hands innocently brushed in the war room, I have wished to curl my fingers with yours. Would that surprise you, Cullen?_

_Perhaps it would, but I do not think you would mind. I’ve noticed your subtle glances, paid attention to the lovely pink that graces your cheeks when I stand near you. Last week, I wore the vanilla fragrance you seem to prefer, watching your eyes darken when you breathed my hair. I thought that might be the day you would finally press your lips to mine, in front of everyone, and I would have gladly melted at your touch._

_Let it be known, that I do not simply admire you for your effortless beauty, but for all that you have accomplished. We would be lost without your guiding hand leading the troops and training the new recruits. There are few, in my humble estimation, who could accomplish half so much with the army in so short a time. Even though Haven was a trial, you rallied our flagging spirits and saw us through the mountain passes with determination, setting aside your own fear, spurring us through our misery to freedom._

_Yet, you are a reserved, proud man and I will not presume to know what you want. I am unsure if you even desire an intimate companion – and still, I found myself compelled to let you know how I feel._

_Please take care and know that you are not alone in your struggles, be they personal or professional, as you suppose. It is true that none of us can ever fathom the horror that was Kirkwall, but that does not mean we are less empathetic. Some of us, more than others. You need not prowl the battlements by yourself, my brave lion._

_You know where I will be whenever you wish, or rather, should you wish to discuss anything. _

_Ardently,_

_JCM_

With unsteady hands, Cullen read the letter a second time and then a third in awe. Those glances shared during afternoon tea in her office, or the touch of her fingers against his as they arranged tokens on the war table, were not figments of his imagination. All this time he had been certain his feelings were unrequited. Believing she was simply being polite when inquiring after his headaches. Yet, Josephine brought him several potion bottles of migraine tonic three weeks ago, that surprisingly eased the constant throbbing more than anything else he’d tried.

He should have realized after she used messengers to ferret out his birthday, discovering it had already passed, and later delivered him a tin of shortbread cookies. Cullen learned from the kitchen maids after the fact, during one of his late-night rummaging’s, that she baked them herself. A lady of noble birth personally baking _him_ cookies? It seemed ridiculous, and in his embarrassment, he never let on to Josephine that he knew – he merely thanked her with sincerity for the gift. Though, now she made it a point to keep him stocked, so he always had one to go with his evening cup of tea.

Despite burning her own candle at both ends, working tirelessly as Ambassador to the Inquisition, Josephine cared about _him_. As Cullen Rutherford, the man, not the Commander of the fastest growing military power in Southern Thedas.

_Please, Cullen, call me Josie. All my friends do._

Rising to his feet with a shy, but determined smile, Cullen hastily pocketed the letter and exited his tower. It was time for afternoon tea with Josie and he had more important things to share with her than Inquisition reports.


	6. Day 6 - Fighting Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric Tethras/Charise Trevelyan (from WIP featuring these two adorable idiots)  
> Part 2 of 3 Part 3 on Day 14 (NSFW)

**Dead Drop**

They had no trouble reaching the city, now it was simply a matter of waiting for the time to make the drop. Leliana scheduled it for midnight the following night to give them plenty of time to reach their destination from Skyhold, in case they encountered problems en route.

In order to not attract attention, the rogues chose an out of the way tavern for their lodgings, entering the building separately and paid for separate rooms. A dwarf and a pretty human traveling together would set tongues wagging and that was the last thing anyone wanted on a reconnaissance mission. They made it a point to not interact in public or acknowledge the other at the tavern. When scouting the layout of the city’s side streets, Varric left Bianca locked in the trunk in his room, carrying a standard bow with a dirk tucked in each boot for close quarter fighting. 

Charise employed a similar tactic to blend in. She wore her old merc uniform and kept a perpetually bored expression on her face to disappear into the crowds. If she accidentally gave the impression she was looking for a fight in her mercenary gear, someone might take her up on it and blow her cover. And she required the thick leather gauntlets of her armor to hide her mark, which meant dressing as a local woman was out of the question.

The night of the drop arrived. The rogues found a local pub close to the location and killed time sipping watered down ale until fifteen til midnight. Charise left first as she was the one carrying the package and Varric followed a few moments later. They kept to the shadows as best as they could and Varric’s eyes roved every corner to guarantee no one attempted to jump the Inquisitor ahead of him.

Reaching the alley, Charise strolled casually around the winding slum before leaning against an empty barrel with a small raven etched into the side. Varric kept a wary eye on her and their surroundings from his hidden position. His skin prickled in the chill night air. He wasn’t sure if his nerve endings tingled after so many days of being near her and not speaking or because all hell was about to break loose. The Chantry bells ominously pealed the midnight hour. Yawning, Charise pushed off the barrel, casually flicking a small parcel that could be mistaken for a soiled handkerchief into the empty barrel and sauntered away. She hadn’t taken ten steps when both exits of the alley were cut off by Venatori.

 _Shit, fuck, damn it!_

Snatching her daggers from their sheathes, she crouched into her fighting stance. Arrows rained from the sky, taking out a small swath of Venatori. The Tevinters craned to see where the archer was hiding and Charise took the opportunity to stealth behind the group in front of her to flank the lead mage. It did not outright kill him, as she hoped, but it sent him sprawling across the stone. As he used his staff to right himself a poison laced arrow burrowed into his neck and he collapsed choking on his own blood. Charise receded into stealth. Reappearing next to an archer at the opposite end of the alley, she felled him with a dual stab to his abdomen. 

Arrows followed in her wake, debilitating her foes with poison and shattered kneecaps, as she spun and slashed through the crush of Tevinters. One of the Venatori discovered Varric’s hiding place, but Charise’s throwing dagger lodged in his spine before he could alert the others to his location. In thanks, a feather dressed shaft buried itself in an assassin’s forehead as he attempted to flank her. With a rapid-fire smile, Charise vanished in a puff of smoke, drawing the last remaining Venatori from Varric with a flirtatious giggle some distance away. The smash of glass sent bees and wasps descending on a trio of Venatori archers and Varric released another volley of metal-tipped rain to pin the flailing Venatori to the cobblestones.

The silence was immediate and deafening. They paused for a few heartbeats to see if another wave would emerge. None did, so Charise brusquely wiped her blades on the nearest body. She stealthed to ensure her exit from the area would not attract any attention. Varric ditched the stolen bow and arrows behind a refuse pile and yanked his flask from his pocket. In case anyone spotted him too close to the scene of the crime, he’d spill some whiskey on his duster and pretend to be Stone drunk. But the streets were ominously quiet, proving his suspicion that the Vints bribed the city guard. 

Returning his flask to his jacket, he traveled another block and whistled a few bars of the Charger’s ditty. Charise broke her stealth in the shadow of a merchant’s stall up the road. Varric joined her and they quickly decided on the fastest route back to the inn to retrieve their things and leave town. They could talk more freely when they put the city behind them.

Separating only long enough to pack, Charise shimmied out of the window of her room instead of taking the front door, in case they were being watched. Varric caught a flash of chestnut on the landing as her head disappeared from view and heard her roll when she hit the ground. The dwarf smiled at the Inquisitor’s ingenuity. No one would know she grew up noble with the wicked street smarts she possessed.

Grabbing his beloved Bianca and his pack from the trunk at the foot of the bed, he tiptoed down the stairs and slunk out the door, grateful that the innkeeper kept the hinges of the door well-oiled so they did not creak. They met up by the alienage gates since it was the easiest landmark to locate on the way out of Val Chevin. Charise handed him a stealth potion to ensure they both escaped undetected. Varric smirked and gave her a cheeky wink as he smashed his bottle. Chuckling softly, she broke her own flask as they slipped unnoticed out of Venatori territory.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. Day 7- Love Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bethany Hawke/Nathaniel Howe  
> Part 2 of 2

**Public Display of Affection**

Nathaniel chuckled beside the raven-haired mage as she drew another card with a grimace. “Trying to lose on purpose, I take it?” Bethany stuck the tip of her tongue at him and he laughed deeply.

“Oh, leave her alone, Nate. It’s your fault she can’t concentrate, anyway,” teased Sigrun. Nate hid his smug smirk behind his mug, warmth flooding his chest when a flush painted the young woman’s cheeks.

Oghren belched loudly. “Don’t worry, girl. We’ll teach you how to play Diamondback, yet. You’ll be the best around with two dwarves to teach you the rules!”

Bethany grinned, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “That’s funny, because Varric is a dwarf and his specialty is Wicked Grace. Of course, I was rubbish with that game, as well. Maybe cards just aren’t for me.”

Sigrun’s face lit up with unbridled excitement. “I still can’t believe you know Varric Tethras! I love his books.” Bethany giggled and Sigrun blushed, quickly ducking behind her cards, as Oghren and Nate joined in the good-natured chuckling.

“Just his books, huh? I’ll be sure to tell him in my next letter that his biggest dwarven fan doesn’t find him attractive.”

Lobbing a peanut at the mage, Sigrun grinned playfully. “Hush, you! Like you have any room to talk. We all know you appreciate chest hair as much as the next woman. It's unladylike to lie, Beth.” Nate choked on his ale while Oghren roared with laughter, slapping his knee with glee, and Bethany flamed the same color as the dwarf’s beard.

Sigrun smirked, laying down her cards. “Oghren, I forgot to tell you this _great_ story!” Wiping away tears, the warrior leaned conspiratorially to the rogue, mirth dancing in his eyes. Bethany glanced quickly at Nate and found him blushing scarlet, as well.

“The other day I was roaming the Keep, minding my business, when I spied our illustrious Nathaniel working with Beth on dual wielding. It was so…dashing. Daggers flashing in the sunlight! The clash of blades ringing in the air! Circling each other as they looked for an opening with no luck – equally matched.”

Oghren hummed appreciatively and Bethany had to admire Sigrun’s storytelling skills. They rivaled Varric’s exaggerations…probably a side effect of reading so many of his novels. She sipped her ale, trying to ignore the proximity of Nate’s hand on her right as Sigrun continued her tale.

“But _then_ , Nate played a trump card!”

“Oh, ho! What did pretty boy do?” The dwarves grinned wickedly at the humans across the table and Nate gulped. 

“He took off his shirt!” 

Oghren blinked rapidly and slammed down his mug. “Is that all? Ancestor’s tits, I thought it was gonna be something good.” 

Bethany and Nathaniel breathed a collective sigh of relief, fingers curling together on the bench, oblivious to the mischievous twinkle in Sigrun’s eyes as they continued their game. 

Nate struggled to get a decent hand after his fellow rogue’s fanciful retelling of their spar. Flashes of Bethany’s cheeks rosy with exertion, tendrils of ebony escaping her braid and clinging to her neck ruined his focus. The mage’s thoughts also drifted, remembering Nate’s bare chest, beads of sweat catching in his dark curls, abs rippling with every exhale. Shifting in concert, Bethany noticed Nate’s quick palm of his breeches while she crossed her legs rolling her hips desperately on the wooden seat. 

Discarding a card, Bethany bit back a moan as Nate’s hand skirted along her leather clad thigh and the man smirked as he drew a card for his turn. Strong fingers massaged her flesh and her internal temperature increased as desire boiled in her veins. Taking a sip of her tepid ale in a vain effort to cool down, she leveled her gaze to the man next to her, purposefully gliding her tongue across her lower lip to catch the amber liquid left behind and watched his breath quicken in response. 

A few more torturous turns around the table heightened the tension between them. By the time Oghren appeared as the clear winner of the round, Nate practically vibrated with need and Bethany’s gaze could melt steel. Rather abruptly, the pair congratulated Oghren on his victory, tossed a hasty goodbye to their fellows, and fell upon each other in the dark hallway as soon as the door shut behind them. 

With the humans gone, Sigrun smacked Oghren’s arm, bouncing in her seat with barely contained elation. “Okay! Now, I can tell you. Who knew Bethany was so feisty?! She must take notes from those books Nate keeps buying her in Amaranthine!”

Outside the chamber, Nate and Bethany snickered, too wound up to be embarrassed. Twining their fingers together, they traveled the lesser-used side passages of the Keep to Nathaniel’s bedroom. Locking the door behind him, he pinned her against the wall, his rogue fingers rapidly untucking her tunic and unlacing her breeches as she toed off her boots and kicked them aside. His mouth blazed a trail of fire from her lips to her neck, suckling greedily on her prominent collarbone when her shirt flew to the other side of the room. They tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of half-dressed limbs, giggling and chuckling softly, as more garments decorated the once tidy floor. 

Later, in the dim glow of the hearth fire, Nate idly caressed her creamy skin, still slick with sweat. A low rumble of laughter slipped past his lips pressed softly to her temple. Beth’s brown eyes met his cool blue with a bright smile. 

“What’s so amusing?”

“You know that Oghren will tell everyone about our little escapade behind the storage shed. He won’t say anything when he’s sober, but the problem is that he’s always half-drunk,” Nate answered with a lopsided-grin. A silent apology danced in his gaze with the loss of their privacy. 

Bethany cupped his stubbled jaw, rolling on her side to face him fully. “Oh, well. It’s not as if they didn’t already know. Besides, I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you every second of every day. This way I can steal kisses from you whenever I want.”

Nate snorted. “Not in front of the Warden Commander, you can’t.”

The mage glanced at him coyly. “Oh, you think so, do you? I have it on good authority that our dear Commander is a romantic and will look the other way, wiping away tears as she passes.” Her small hand crept up the chiseled planes of his chest, brushing along his dark curls with a contented hum. “You know how she and Alistair always lock themselves in their room for days on end when he returns from missions.”

Rolling his eyes, Nate huffed. “Don’t remind me. She leaves me with all the work.” 

Bethany kissed him lightly. “You love it. I know you do. And she would want us to be openly happy, just as they are. I don’t care if they know. I don’t care if they see how much I…love you.”

His pupils dilated, obscuring the blue beneath, as Nate registered her words and yanked her flush against him. Breathing raggedly in the sudden stillness, Nate struggled to find his voice. “What did you say?”

Lifting her lips to his ear, the young woman whispered, “I said, I love you, Nathaniel Howe.” 

Nate tightened his grip and peppered her face with kisses between her delighted giggles, murmuring, “Thank the Maker. I thought it was just me.” 


	8. Day 8 - Patching Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lace Harding/F! Lavellan

**Tending You**

A moan sounded behind them, instantly spurring her team to snatch their discarded weapons. Alys stole on soft feet, trying to avoid the deep mud that threatened to capture her boots and throw her face first into the muck. The elf reached the outcropping where the noise emanated from, expecting to find a walking corpse they missed in the original skirmish.

“Lace! Creators! Bull, help me!”

The qunari snatched the smaller woman and raced her back to base with the Inquisitor hot on their heels. Alys tried not to think of Lace’s usually lively cheeks devoid of color or the gash in her abdomen stained with blood under the dwarf’s hand. Tents were useless in the Fallow Mire, so the scouts commandeered the nearby cabins for shelter and they tumbled into the nearest one. 

Dorian beat them back to camp, clearing off the lower bunk to allow the warrior to lay the woman on the mattress. The mage gingerly peeled back the woman’s sticky leathers, apologizing for his part in causing her pain when she hissed at the movement. Sighing in relief, Dorian smiled reassuringly to the anxious scout. 

“A flesh wound. It has damaged nothing vital. It needs to be cleaned and stitched, but with a healing potion and daily applications of a poultice, it will heal.”

Dorian lifted her soaked armor to remove it and Lace stiffened, her green eyes flicking from the Inquisitor to the men hovering in the room and a protectiveness roared within the elf. “Men, out! This is for women only.” 

Her companions blinked at her in wide-eyed surprise, only rivaled by the dumbfounded expression gracing the scout’s freckled features. Alys stepped closer to the bed, hands on her hips, ignoring that her usual imposing stature was less so in her saturated state. Iron Bull glanced between the women and smirked, tapping Dorian on the shoulder, tossing his pack on the table as they left.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Alys turned to Lace with a warm smile. The dwarven woman fidgeted uncomfortably. “Inquisitor, you-you don’t have to tend to me. One of my scouts can do it. We’re used to helping each other in the field.”

“Lace, please. Let me take care of you, for once. And what did I say about calling me Inquisitor?” 

She blushed, smiling shyly at the elven woman, “It’s a tough habit to break, Alys. If I get too comfortable, I’ll start name dropping among the scouts and give them the wrong idea.” 

Alys’s stomach twisted, even as she smiled in the quiet room and eased the dwarf out of her ruined armor. Outer layers removed, leaving her in breast band and smalls, she tucked the woman under a blanket while she set up her tools. Shucking her own drenched clothes, Alys pulled on a dry sleeping tunic, so she could work without polluting the wound and snatched a kettle to boil water for cleaning the area. Digging in Bull’s pack she found the kit that held the needles and catgut for stitching and the numbing cream, a recipe from her clan, that came in handy for field suturing.

With the water boiled, she quickly washed her hands and her tools before pouring the remainder in a clean basin with some elfroot and prophet’s laurel to disinfect the wound. Locating her clean cloths and bandages, Alys kneeled on the rug peeking underneath the bed, smiling tenderly at the dwarf as she set up her materials.

Rolling back the blanket, she breathed in relief as she fully examined the wound. A gash in the ample flesh of her right side, but dwarves carried an extra layer of padding on their physique, shielding her muscles from injury. The edges were jagged and would probably scar, but Lace would live and that was all she cared about.

“You’re too quiet. It’s making me nervous,” the dwarf whispered. She hummed appreciatively as the elf’s warm hands danced along her skin. Alys murmured a soft apology at her gasp with the sudden temperature increase as hot water bathed her tender flesh.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s hot, but it’s not deep. Just a few passes to clean it out.” Alys’s free hand tangled with one of Lace’s freckled ones, and the dwarf didn’t protest, instead clinging to it as an anchor against the flushing of her wound. Every tug and lavage of the injury pulled small gasps from her lips that almost broke Alys’s heart. When she finally set aside the basin, the dwarf was not the only one trembling.

“I’m okay. It’s okay. Y-you did what you had to…I don’t blame you,” the scout panted, sweat dotting her brow. “I just couldn’t swear…not in front of the Inquisitor.” She gave a strained laugh at the elf’s eye roll.

“Fuck, Lace. You know I’m the last one who gives a damn about propriety or being the ‘Herald of Andraste.’ Drop all the curses you want. I’m sure yours are quite inventive, traveling the world with a bunch of mouthy soldiers.” 

Her bark of laughter was robust, full-bodied and heady, like one of Dorian’s vintage wines and Alys’s pulse increased in response. Releasing her hand with regret, she produced a health potion from her materials and gently lifted the dwarf’s head so she could drink it. Alys held her breath as Lace’s lips puckered around the edge of the flask. Her gaze flicked to her bright green eyes and found them locked on her.

She no longer heard the rain pouring outside or the crackling of the hearth nor saw the cozy one room cabin. All her focus was on the woman she thought she might lose and hadn’t yet told how she felt. As Lead Scout, she was the first to arrive in new regions to set up a base of operations and make sure it was secure for the Inquisitor. How many near death experiences had she had that Alys didn’t know about? Would she have told her? Had she ever asked?

“Lace…”

“Alys?”

Setting aside the empty flask, Alys cupped Lace’s face in her slender hands and leaned forward to press her lips to the rosy, pillowy ones that were a constant source of fascination for her. The dwarf froze. Mentally cursing herself, Alys pulled back, an apology on her tongue, when Lace grabbed her tunic and snatched her back with a blissful sigh. Relaxing into the kiss, Alys languidly caressed her full lips, savoring the sweetness under the bitter tang of elfroot and wondered why in the Creator’s name she had waited so long.

When they finally separated, panting after months of pining realized, she smiled at the glazed expression of her patient. Touching her forehead reverently, she kissed the tip of Lace’s nose, pulling a surprised giggle from the dwarven woman. 

“I’m sorry. I should be tending to you, not –“

“Fuck, Alys,” she teased, mirth shining in her green eyes. “You  _ are _ tending to me.” The elf flushed slightly at the insistence in her tone. 

“Still, let me finish getting you patched up, okay? Once you’re bandaged, we’ll bundle you in one of my tunics and blankets so you can rest.”

A gentle brush of fingers against her cheek halted her retreat and she turned her wide eyes to the dwarf. “I’ll only rest if you stay with me,” she murmured shyly. With a soft kiss of her lips across Lace’s hand, Alys nodded with a tender smile.

“For you, I would do anything.”


	9. Day 9- Bee Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen/Josephine   
> Part 2 of 2

**Dolcezza**

“Josie, I have some reports for you to –“

Cullen opened the door to Josephine’s office and never finished the rest of his sentence. Instead, he bit back a bemused grin that threatened to overtake his face. The Ambassador of the Inquisition, heir to House Montilyet, was attempting to scale her furthest bookshelf. Swiveling her head as the door slammed behind him, she flung her arm in a vague direction of her desk.

“Bee! A bee in the bouquet! Get it out, get it out, get it out!”

Smirking openly now, Cullen strode purposefully towards the offensive floral arrangement. The yellow and black offender stood out among the lilacs and heliotrope blossoms. No wonder the insect hitched a ride – he recalled the bees in Honnleath seemed particularly fond of heliotrope. With gloved fingers, he gingerly removed the bloom with its stowaway, catching Josie’s grateful gaze as he genteelly spun to open the window in the corner and shooed the insect outside. 

Latching the window to prevent its return for a second act, he turned around to find Josephine poised next to her desk, shyly nibbling her lip. A soft smile graced her delicate features when he presented her with the purple flower, now free of its passenger. 

“My lady,” he murmured with a deep bow and a playful twinkle in his amber eyes.

“Thank you, brave knight. I fear if anyone else discovered me in such a state, I would never live down the shame.” Sniffing the heliotrope, she hummed with contentment and warmth flooded Cullen’s chest when her eyelids fluttered as she admired the heady fragrance. 

“A knight should always be ready to respond in all manner of aid, especially damsels in distress. As  _ your _ knight, my fair maiden, I am at your beck and call. You need not fear embarrassment for any reason, Josie.”

Peering at him from under dark lashes, a flush highlighted her cheeks as she replied. “I know. I apologize…I panicked. Bees terrify me. I am not allergic, but I do my best to avoid them. I’m glad you arrived when you did.” Her petite hand slid into his gloved palm and squeezed gently. “Thank you, Cullen – truly.”

Snaking his free arm around her waist, he pulled her close and whispered, “You’re welcome. Might the knight ask a boon of the lady?”

Tilting her head in invitation, Josie purred, “I would be disappointed, if you didn’t, good ser.”

Rosy lips parted in breathless anticipation and Cullen’s pulse quickened as he closed the gap between them, claiming her delicious lips with fervor. Sweeter than honey and richer than the finest wine, he found himself instantly addicted when he deepened the kiss and she melted in his hold as their tongues danced. Leaning against him, he supported her with ease, smiling to himself as she swooned.

When they parted, Josie stared at him in wonder, her gaze glassy and unfocused. Cullen chuckled softly and cupped her cheek with infinite tenderness surprising for a man his size. “My lady Josephine, it is no wonder you can tame the surliest of nobles with words alone when you possess lips so talented.”

Her peridot eyes sparkled when she replied, “It is a good thing indeed, Ser Cullen, that I reserve my sincerest gratitude for knights who rescue fair damsels in their time of need.”

Cullen’s arms tightened around her waist and he quirked a perfect eyebrow in question. “To any knight, Lady Montilyet?”

Josephine’s brilliant smile rivaled the sun as she angled her head, stretching on tiptoe to close the distance between them. Cheek to cheek, her lips moved against his ear, warm, sweet breath caressing his fine hair as she whispered, “No, dolcezza – only you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Dolcezza" - "my sweet"


	10. Day 10 - Surprise Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen/Alistair  
> Part 2 of 2

**Locus Amoenus**

[def Latin - “pleasant place,” usually a charming field or a walled garden]

Strolling the quiet fortress in the evening was a favored pastime. He noticed many things that others might overlook. Dorian and Varric discussing history in the library. Cassandra and Josephine swapping romance novels with excited giggles. Lels and Vivienne plotting on the mage’s terrace or maybe discussing their mutual love of fashion, but since they spoke in Orlesian, he wasn’t sure which it was. Since teaming up with the Inquisitor, Alistair began to see the various companions as family and the castle his home. Surprising, indeed, since the last time he lived in a castle it had certainly not felt homey. 

Of course, his feelings had absolutely nothing to do with the enigmatic Commander who also lived and breathed and, Maker’s breath, _prowled_ the halls like a caged lion. Alistair sighed heavily. He’d pined for Cullen since he was old enough to realize his brotherly affection for him wasn’t quite so… _brotherly._

Leliana was right… again. Damn that maddening woman! He should have spoken to Cullen about things face-to-face before he left. Then, he wouldn’t have spent 16 days, 9 hours, and 27 minutes stressing about his reaction. If he had simply _told_ him, instead of leaving a furtive note and running away, he could have spent the time away either celebrating… or more likely, patching up his battered heart away from prying eyes. Now, he had to walk blindly into a mess of his own making - well, he would if he hadn’t been avoiding every opportunity to speak to him over the last two days.

Andraste’s flaming sword! 

Entering the garden, Alistair found it blissfully empty and quickly located his favorite spot at the far end of the cultivated square. Closing his eyes, he leaned against a column hidden by riotous purple blooms and tried to muster the courage to do what he needed to do. _Everyone is at dinner and I’m sulking behind the wisteria, hiding from my problems - like usual._

“I thought I might find you here.” 

The rich baritone startled him and he wrapped his arms around the cool marble in shock. Swallowing hard, his hazel eyes landed on the man casually leaning on the wall across from him, noting the twinkle in his amber eyes, and his surprising lack of armor. 

His attire was the same as his own, except his tunic was red instead of cream, and Alistair’s lips twitched. Of course, he would wear red – it was practically his signature color. Not that he was complaining, because the shade definitely suited him and without his mantle Alistair could appreciate how Cullen’s muscular legs filled out his breeches.

Clearing his throat, Alistair stammered. "Cullen… I, ah… shit. I’m really sorry about the letter… and everything. I shouldn’t have just thrown it in your lap and disappeared like I did. I -" 

Cullen’s warm chuckle interrupted his rambling. “I hope you aren’t sorry about the letter because I’m not.” 

Alistair sucked in a ragged breath as his lips curled into that infuriatingly gorgeous smirk that made him weak in the knees. Producing a red rose from behind his back, he twirled it with careless finesse. He nearly collapsed; his heart pounding so hard he thought it would surely burst. A strangled wheeze tumbled from his mouth without his permission, rudely exposing his absolute astonishment to the man who never had so much as a single hair out of place. 

In three quick strides, Cullen stood before him, one hand cupping his face with a tenderness that Alistair dreamed of for almost twenty years. Cullen’s gaze flicked to his lips and closed the two inches that separated them, scattering all rational thought from his mind as he allowed himself to be swept away - fantasy, at last, made real.

Full lips moved against his own, the scar surprisingly smooth, and Alistair swore he could hear Andraste singing. When they deepened the kiss, brandy and mint danced on his tongue, setting his blood aflame. The moans ripped jointly from them proved he was not alone in this maelstrom of emotion. The arm hooked around his waist might well have been steel, holding him captive as their sweet kiss rapidly gave way to something more primal, insistent, demanding. He needed more; he needed all of Cullen, everything he thought he could never have, yet hoped for since his youth.

Separating with a gasp as his brain asserted the need for oxygen, Alistair stared at Cullen in awe. The blond was just as dazed, swallowing hard before he rasped, “Is that answer enough for you?”

Alistair blinked in residual astonishment while scrambling for a response. “Wh-why...did you never say anything?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced in embarrassment. "I’m sure for the same reason you didn’t. I was… afraid that I would lose your friendship and… I -"

“Would rather have that than nothing, at all.” Alistair finished and they smiled shyly at one another. “When did you know?”

He cleared his throat, features pinking slightly with his admission. “Ahh, when you poured that bucket of dish water over my head and instead of making me angry, it made me laugh. Surprised the hell out of you, if I recall.”

Alistair snorted. “Surprised the hell out of all of us, actually, but Maker’s breath, Cullen! I’d already been in love with you for a year at that point!” Recognizing the enormity of his words, Alistair clammed up and stepped aside to flee. Yet Cullen always anticipated when he would retreat and snagged his arm to return him to his original position.

His eyes shone like polished bronze in the fading light of the garden and Alistair was lost in them. Cullen’s breathing increased along with his and he hoped, he _prayed_ , he had not stuck his foot so far in his mouth that he couldn’t dig his way out, if needed. A strong arm snaked around his back, deliberately pulling him closer until they were intimately flush. Uncertain what he should do with his arms, he settled for wrapping them around the blond which must have been the correct choice as the other man visibly relaxed in his hold.

Alistair was the taller of the two, but in this moment, he felt small and vulnerable. Cullen also seemed unsure, but certainly more confident than Alistair after his slip. Brushing a hand across Alistair’s cheek, Cullen whispered hoarsely, “I love you, too, Alistair. I have for… far too long without being able to tell you. I-I want this… you… us. If… you’ll have me, that is. I know that I am not… whole anymore.”

“Don’t say that!” Alistair’s wide eyes pleaded, gripping him firmly, mimicking the tightness in his chest. “No one can ever understand what you’ve been through, Cullen, not even me. But you are _not_ broken. You are a _survivor_ and I have so much damned respect for you. Giving up lyrium? Leaving the Templars? Commanding an army?” Alistair thumbed his stubbled jaw. “You’re an inspiration.” 

Cullen scoffed softly, glancing at the ground as color flared up his neck and face. Alistair smiled and lifted his chin, stating adamantly, “Yes, Cullen, you are. You’re an inspiration to _me.”_ Tears briefly welled in his golden gaze, but he blinked them away with a small quirk of his lips, relaxing in his gentle hold.

Alistair glanced at the rose in Cullen’s other hand. “Is that the one I gave you?” he whispered reverently, melting at the tenderness with which Cullen cradled the bloom in his large hand, a fond smile decorating his face as he admired the flower. 

Cullen nodded slowly as though lost in thought, his thumb delicately rubbing the velvety petals. “I… ahem… asked Dorian to enchant it – preserve it, so it won’t die.”

Alistair rocked on his heels in shock. After a heartbeat, he gasped breathlessly, “You told Dorian?” 

His brow furrowed with uncertainty, fear beginning to swirl in his amber eyes. “Yes… only because I needed his help. Should I not have? I did not think you would mind.” 

In response, Alistair captured his lover’s mouth again, pouring his heart and soul into the kiss. A few moments later, he rested his forehead to Cullen’s, choking back tears when he spoke. “Of course, I don’t mind, you chivalrous knight! You told _someone_ about me… us.” 

Cullen cupped the nape of Alistair’s neck, affectionately circling his soft skin with battle-worn fingers, the clouds of anxiety now banished in favor of understanding. “Of course I told someone. You’re not a dirty little secret, Alistair. I _love_ you. I am _in love_ with you and I have been for half my life. I never expected you to feel the same way, but I am not ashamed of you or us… as a couple.”

Alistair’s tongue was thick with emotion when he replied, “I love you, too. I’m _in love_ with you, Cullen.” Brushing their lips lightly together, he then pressed a chaste kiss against the scar he loved, but knew made Cullen self-conscious. The blond’s breath caught at the action – so much said in that one touch. A lifetime of kisses and acceptance in one and neither of them ever felt so full.

“Come with me,” Alistair whispered, afraid to speak any louder and potentially break the spell in the quiet garden. Cullen nodded mutely, eyes suspiciously bright as he clung to Alistair’s hand, gingerly holding the enchanted rose as they stole up the stairs to the battlements and Cullen’s tower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flower symbolism: 
> 
> Red Rose: the lover’s rose, respect 
> 
> Wisteria: this vine has multiple meanings, but I used it in this scene for this particular one “serious devotion, whether it’s to a cause or another person”


	11. Day 11 - Love Potion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair/Morrigan  
> Part 2 of 3 Part 3 on Day 13

**Moonlight Confessions**

“Here, my friends, have something warm to drink during your watch tonight.” 

Zevran passed Alistair and Morrigan mugs of piping hot tea with a wide smile, then ducked into his tent; his four-hour shift guarding the camp, now over.

Morrigan breathed the fragrant brew in appreciation. Most of Zevran’s blends were herbal, but they were always enjoyable. Revitalizing and comforting, which was exactly what she needed to see her through four hours with Alistair. Glancing furtively at him under dark lashes, her attention was inexplicably drawn to his perfect lips wrapped around the edge of his mug, hazel eyes half-closed as an involuntary hum vibrated in his throat as he drank.

Tearing her gaze away before he could catch her ogling, she raised her own cup to blow on the liquid and take a tentative sip. It was delicious – floral with a hint of spice… like nutmeg or cloves and something she couldn’t identify. Morrigan was three-fourths through her mug when her brain catalogued the mystery ingredient and her eyes widened in horror.

“Alistair! Stop! Do not drink the tea!” 

Yet, even as she said it, she knew it was too late. He lowered the now empty mug, setting it on the log beside him as though it was qunari blackpowder. Snarling, Morrigan tossed the remaining liquid from her cup and stormed into the assassin’s tent.

The elf smirked at her in the semi-darkness, sprawled on his bedroll, arms casually locked behind his head. “My lady Morrigan, to what do I owe the pleasure of your wrath tonight?”

Morrigan seethed, tossing the mug aside and pointed her finger dangerously at the smug Antivan. “You know _exactly_ why, elf! Now, tell me how to reverse the potion!” 

Unfurling his hands, he blinked innocently at her. “I cannot, I am afraid to say. Felicidus Aria must run its course.”

The witch grit her teeth. “How long until it wears off, then?”

“Twelve hours, give or take. I’m only helping you, mia cara. I have seen the longing stares from both of you since Orzammar. Life is too short for such pining when what you want is right in front of you, no?”

“I will kill you, elf, and when I do, I will resurrect you and murder you again!” Clenching her hands, Morrigan spun to leave the canvas shelter, but paused at the elf’s sultry chuckle.

“We shall see how you feel about that in twelve hours time, dear Morrigan.” 

Dismissing the assassin’s words as romantic nonsense, she exited the tent, her breath catching at the sight of Alistair at the edge of the camp. Her heart raced as her gaze lingered on his broad shoulders and muscular back she knew bled into lean hips supported by powerful legs. His endurance and strength as a warrior would have been unmatched with his years of training even without the addition of Grey Warden stamina. His physique and martial prowess were areas that not even she could find fault in. 

Exhaling raggedly, Morrigan crept on silent feet towards him, crossing her arms and shifting her weight uncomfortably as she halted on his left. Neither spoke for a few moments, but she observed him in her periphery while he stared contemplatively at the stars. Freckled skin bathed in moonlight, enhancing his chiseled jawline and aquiline nose - truly, the man’s profile could have been carved from marble, yet he was oblivious of his own attractiveness. She tried to ignore the warmth that coursed through her when she admitted it was...endearing.

His voice broke the weighty silence, wrapping around them like velvet in the chilly night, though he continued to peer into the heavens, as though seeking guidance from the constellations. “So – love potion… that’s a first.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he laughed mirthlessly. “What do we do? Just… _let_ it happen or avoid each other for the next few hours?”

Her stomach tied in knots in a manner she was aware was not a response to the spiked tea. Damn that elf! The herb he used didn’t manufacture feelings for a person - they merely _enhanced_ current attraction. A potent aphrodisiac, if you will. Morrigan knew good and well the ardor between them was genuine, only now they had the impetus of the potion to spur them into action... should they choose to act upon it. 

Snatching his hand like she had in the Deep Roads, though this time with full knowledge of her actions, she squeezed insistently. Alistair finally turned to her, surprise written on his face, but underneath – desire. And tonight wasn’t the first time she’d seen it. Shaking her head, Morrigan rasped, “No. Anything, but avoid each other.” 

His eyes bored hard into her, searching for something, unsatisfied by what he found. Rounding on her, he yanked her flush against him and growled. “Tell me what you want, Morrigan. What you wanted before the potion. Do you want me or are you just toying with me? To discard when you get bored?”

The bastard! He wanted her to say it – to confess… NO! She couldn’t do it, but the potion had other ideas. The words sat on the tip of her tongue demanding to be vocalized. Morrigan shook her head wildly in refusal while he pinned her with soul searching scrutiny. Her gaze meanwhile, was focused intently on his mouth. Not for the first time imagining how soft his lips were, how sweet they tasted, how they would feel dancing on her skin. She had to know - the waiting was interminable. 

“Shut up and kiss me, you fool,” Morrigan moaned huskily. 

Hazel eyes turned molten, rapid breathing a match for her own, his tongue swiping across full lips all the warning she had before they captured hers. Alistair’s passion and talent surprised her; apparently, she had misjudged the shy Chantry boy in a few areas. Their tongues dueled, warring for dominance, while his hand fisted her dark tresses, keeping her head tilted at the perfect angle for his height and Morrigan learned a new appreciation for the disparity. With her arms trapped between them, she clutched his tunic as an anchor against the waves of _want_ coursing white hot through her veins. 

Rubbing herself wantonly along the evidence of his excitement, Alistair groaned deep in his chest. Morrigan mewled as the low note reverberated through her bones and her knees buckled, but his vice-like grip kept her upright. His lips trailed her jawline, nipping her earlobe gently, chuckling with pride at her gasp before dipping along her neck. She leaned back to allow him better access, which he greedily took advantage of, licking, kissing, nipping her skin in turn. When his teeth discovered the sensitive juncture of her shoulder above her collarbone, she bucked against his thigh with a cry of pleasure and felt his lips curl into a smug grin. 

Underneath the lust there was something else – brighter, tremulous, and fragile. It jangled along her nerve endings reminiscent of lightning until she vibrated like a divining rod in his strong embrace. It wasn’t a side effect of the potion – its presence preceded their dosing. It had grown rapidly, twining around her heart like bindweed, the roots burying deeper with each passing day since that touch in the Deep Roads. 

Alistair hadn’t judged or mocked her in the face of her terror. Instead, he offered her a _willing_ show of support and comfort, and had continued to do so thereafter. He could be insufferable and immature. Yet, he was also smarter than she gave him credit for and she was loath to admit that, at times, she found his humor honestly amusing. Mostly however, he was so effortlessly, genuinely kind to everyone and over the last three months he’d extended it to her as an olive branch.

She was smitten.

An embarrassing whine escaped her when Alistair’s lips left her neck and she trembled as his rich laughter rumbled around them in the dark. “Now, Morrigan, I believe you were getting ready to tell me something.”

Her mouth dried, gaping at his sheer audacity. The man could be infuriatingly obstinate when he wanted to be! His stubbornness and adherence to his principles rivaled her own, and she admired him for it, even though they were usually on opposite sides. Morrigan respected that he was not easily swayed regarding the things he truly believed in and right now, she knew he would fight the potion’s effects, _avoid her,_ if she didn’t profess the truth. 

Cocking an eyebrow at her in the continued silence, he waited patiently for a few heartbeats, before sighing heavily and releasing her. Her heart slammed against her rib cage and her brain railed at her to speak. _Once he walks away, you will lose him! You have a chance at something real, idiot girl! Will you throw it away? Are you afraid?_

“YES!” 

Clutching his arm to halt his retreat, Morrigan flushed in the ethereal light at her outburst and the startled expression on his face. “Yes… I have something to say, Alistair. My… _'_ tis _not_ solely a result of the potion at work. I-I am … _unnerved_ by that kind of… emotion. ‘Tis something I have never experienced, but… I look at you and I cannot deny it.” The woman paused, licking her swollen lips, and breathed, “I no longer _want_ to deny it.”

Those handsome lips she had admired secretly from afar, and now knew truly were as delicious as she imagined, curved into a beatific smile. Amber eyes seared her soul as he wrapped his arms around her smaller frame again, gently tugging her against his chest, and _hugged_ her. 

Had she ever been hugged? Had anyone ever cared enough about her to envelop her with a simple demonstration of love? She couldn’t recall a single person in her entire life – except for him. The man she’d teased and harangued mercilessly since meeting. Yet, despite all, Alistair obviously found something good and noteworthy in her. He believed her deserving of such affection.

Alistair tilted her head gingerly upwards for a kiss unlike any she’d ever experienced: pure and tender, full of heart, his gift to her. An answering trill fluttered in her core on diaphanous wings, pulsing brilliantly through her veins. Leaning out of the embrace, there was a depth of understanding shining in his gaze that shamed Morrigan for her earlier assumptions of him.

“I care about you, too,” he whispered. “And I am equally scared. I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I know I don’t want to spend the rest of my life regretting that I never told you how I feel. I want to… spend the night with you, if you want, that is. I know I don’t know what I’m doing -"

Pressing a finger to his lips, Morrigan smiled coyly, her confidence returning now that they were in territory familiar to her. “’Tis a skill that can be learned, Alistair. I am willing and my tent is far enough away to grant us more privacy.” Taking his sword roughened hand, a shiver of anticipation rushed through her at the familiar touch, as she led him to the far side of the camp with an extra sway to her hips.

“Minx,” he groused behind her, pulling a teasing bubble of laughter from her throat. Alistair grinned broadly, spinning her to face him, walking her backwards the last few feet while kneading the flesh of her hips. 

“You know, Alistair, I _do_ enjoy this new confidence of yours. ‘Tis most attractive.” 

Leaning down, his lips brushed against hers and continued along her cheek to pause at her ear, his hot breath caressing the shell seductively. “Then I shall endeavor to remain confident even after this has worn off, _Morrigan."_

Melting in his grasp, the witch moaned, whispering hoarsely, “Into the tent, now. I cannot have you fast enough.”

Following her with a low chuckle, Alistair murmured, “You know, I was just thinking the same thing.”


	12. Day 12 - Watching Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair/Rylie Trevelyan (from unpublished WIP)

**A Moment In Time**

Rylie snuggled closer to Alistair, slipping her calloused hands under his tunic to steal more of his body heat with a giggle. He gasped in surprise, yet knowing he was already defeated, he chuckled softly allowing her palms to rest in the dip of his waist. The Warden tugged the blanket tighter around them, even though it would never be enough to provide adequate warmth while they sat on an exposed outcropping in Emprise de Lion.

She hadn’t lied, however, when she told him upon his arrival that the vistas in Sahrnia were breathtaking. He could see for miles – vast expanses of rugged wilderness washed white in a deep layer of snow and ice. Even the lyrium spikes were dazzling as the light streamed through the massive crystals sending refractions of ruby along the snow-capped terrain.

Glancing at him under long lashes, crystalline blue met burnished amber, thoughts and emotions too all-encompassing to ever be accurately spoken transpired between them. Rylie needed Alistair like she needed air to breathe. He buoyed her, supported her, literally rescued her twice now, but his tender gaze suggested she was not the only one in their relationship who’d been saved.

The desire to be closer to him became increasingly overwhelming as she stared into his soulful eyes. When she removed her hands, he quirked an eyebrow at her, a faint smirk playing on his lips that grew into a broad grin as she crawled into his lap and burrowed against his chest. Her hum of appreciation lit a fire in his stomach as he encompassed them with the thick blanket, snugly wrapping his arms around her petite frame, and rested his cheek on her forehead.

The sun began to dip beneath the horizon and together they watched the blank canvas of the Emprise come alive in a riotous wash of blush pink, burnt orange, and dusky purple. Every square inch of white reflected a different color, an impressionist attempt to mirror the perfection of the sky.

Rylie sighed blissfully, her whispered tone filling the space between them. “I’m so glad you were able to see this with me. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Alistair’s lips curled into a soft smile as he breathed in her crisp scent and murmured in her ear. “Yes, it is beautiful.” 

Rylie flushed – aware he wasn’t talking solely about the scenery. Twisting her head, her mouth connected with his in a sweet kiss, their lips melding together as though crafted for one another, and her heart sang joyously for the man embracing her. Alistair leaned back, his gaze sincere and warm as he brushed a honey strand of hair from her face. Reaching into his pocket, he presented her with a new chain, his heavy ring winking gold in the dying light of day. Her eyes misted at the gesture as he slipped it gently over her head and pulled his matching necklace from under his tunic, weighted with her family crest.

“But nothing could ever be lovelier than you, my beautiful Rylie.” 

  
  



	13. Day 13 - Love Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair/Morrigan  
> Part 3 of 3 of Morristair (Part 1 on Day 2, Part 2 on Day 11)

**Marked**

“Alistair, are you feeling alright?”

The warrior halted the progress of his whetstone along his blade to stare suspiciously at the smart-mouthed assassin across the campfire. Zevran’s expression gave nothing away, which unsettled the man further, but he answered despite his misgivings.

“Yeeeesss, why?”

Zevran might have smirked, but Alistair couldn’t be sure, unfurling the coil of anxiety rolling in his gut. He cast his eyes around the camp, but it looked like the others were out of earshot of whatever the elf might say. 

“I merely wonder, my friend, if you are getting enough rest. It must be _hard_ for a warrior to fight all day long, only to stay up half the night pleasing his beautiful lady, no?” Zevran was definitely smirking now and despite his hopes, Oghren and Leliana overheard the rogue’s comment and broke into snorts of laughter.

Alistair sputtered, flaming beet red. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours, is it?” He glanced around the camp again, wondering if this was some sort of set-up. _Maker save me._

Raising his hands, the Antivan reassured him. “I mean no offence! I only fear for your well-being.”

The elf’s statement caught his attention. “What? Why would you fear for my ‘well-being?’ I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much.” He returned to sharpening his sword with single-minded diligence, hoping to end the conversation. 

Waving to a figure approaching the fire, Zevran grinned broadly. “Ah, my lady Morrigan. We were just discussing Alistair’s health. Tell me, do you believe he is well?” 

Alistair shot her a sidelong glance and broke out into a cold sweat at the sight of her mischievous smile. 

“Zevran, how kind of you, the resident assassin to care about your fellows so. To answer your question, I believe that Alistair is in fine health. Was there something in particular that made you assume otherwise?”

Pointing to his neck, the elf creased his brow with faux concern. “There are just far more bruises gracing his lovely skin than usual, no? Maybe he is ill? Or his reaction time on the field is lessened by lack of sleep?”

The warrior burned under everyone’s united stare and he resisted the urge to cover the marks on his neck. Marks that also graced his torso to match the scratches on his back that were, mercifully, hidden under his tunic.

Morrigan’s eyes warmed infinitesimally as she looked at him. No one else would have noticed, but he’d learned enough to read her in their shared bedroll, discovering what made her come apart at the seams. And he could now discern the small displays of emotion he used to believe she was devoid of. In actuality, Morrigan was a wellspring of passion, as well as intelligence. She simply didn’t know how to show it without abrasiveness, but she was becoming less so and he liked to think he was part of her growth. His chest flooded with warmth under her gaze. There must have been something written on his face that caused her breath to catch slightly and Alistair couldn’t contain his smug grin.

Turning back to the others, who observed their unspoken communication with keen interest, Morrigan flicked her fingers dismissively while shrugging her delicate shoulders. “I wouldn’t worry too much, elf. He is not the only one sporting such marks. Mine are only in places you shall never have the pleasure to see - in this life or the next.”

Trailing her long nails along Alistair’s shoulders and neck in parting, she sauntered away amid the chorus of congratulations from the elf and half-drunk dwarf and Leliana’s stunned giggles. 

“Oh, ho! Truly, my friend, I did not know you had it in you!”

Setting aside his sword, Alistair stood abruptly, his hazel eyes tracking Morrigan’s movements as she headed for the edge of the camp towards the stream. “Yes, well… ahem, I’m afraid I must cut this short. Glad I could…” Morrigan shot him a heated glance over her shoulder as she ducked into the tree line and he momentarily forgot how to breathe. “I… bye!” 

The warrior didn’t even bother to pretend he wasn't chasing the seductive witch, chuckling under his breath as he followed her on fleet feet. 

“Oh, my…” Leliana flushed as Morrigan’s trill of amusement echoed from the shadows on the heels of Alistair’s boom of triumphant laughter as he located his quarry in the shadows.

“Something tells me he will return wearing more marks,” mused Zevran.

Leliana replied between her sniggers. “Provided she doesn’t eat him! The look she gave him seemed quite… hungry.” 

“Not that I blame her, really,” sighed Zevran wistfully and the bard nodded in agreement. The sound of water splashing and the occasional moan reached their ears. Zevran’s eyes twinkled merrily and with a cheeky wink he dashed off to sneak a peek at the lovers. 

Leliana hopped up, hot on the elf’s trail and hissed, “Wait for me!”

Oghren chuckled at the kid’s antics, taking another swig from his flask, and stumbled into his tent to shove cotton wool in his ears. It was hard to get a decent night’s sleep anymore with both couples keeping him awake. He snorted and rolled his eyes. Those rogues… thinking he didn’t know what they got up to. He might be a drunk, but he wasn’t stupid.


	14. Day 14 - NSFW (This story is rated E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric Tethris/Charise Trevelyan (from same as-yet unpublished WIP as Day 6)  
> Part 3 of 3

**Culmination**

It was almost midnight when the group playing Wicked Grace dispersed and Charise trudged up the stairs from the tavern to her room. Upon entering her bedchamber she wasn’t surprised to see Varric already divested of his tunic, hair free of its tie and brushing his shoulders awaiting her in the large bed. With nervous elation, she hustled to the center of the room, and angled herself so she was in his line of sight.

Smiling invitingly, Charise took her time unbuttoning her blouse, letting it slide smoothly across her arms to pool around her feet. Hooking her fingers under her breast band, the rogue flicked it across the room. Varric swallowed hard, balling the coverlet in his large hands as she revealed her tantalizing creamy skin, glimmering a soft gold in the hearth light. Coquettishly unlacing her breeches and sliding her thumbs under the waistband, she rolled them with agonizing slowness over her hips and past her thighs before stepping out of them and kicking them Maker-knew-where. Standing bare before him was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking, but if his burning amber eyes and pulsing jugular were any indication, she needn’t worry about any of her perceived faults. 

Swallowing hard, he took a moment to drink her in and give him time to calm his racing heart. This was actually happening. They’d danced around each other for months. She’d contrived a stupid mission for the two of them to work solo, giving them alone time on the road. Even after fighting the attraction like an idiot, she waited for him and continued to let him know he was the only one she wanted. And now, she invited him to touch her heavy breasts heaving with excitement and to trek past her dark patch of curls. Andraste’s tits, he was one lucky son of a bitch.

Crooking a finger at her with a broad grin, Charise crawled the length of the bed, hovering over him with her breasts practically swinging in his face, but he stared into her bright blue eyes.

“Gorgeous,” he murmured. 

Cupping his hand around her nape, Varric gently pulled her closer to kiss her fervently, stealing her breath with his ardor. Her stomach flip-flopped and she doubted she’d ever get over to the weak-kneed response of his mouth on hers. Moving his lips down her neck, Varric nipped the dip of her collarbone, then soothed it with his tongue. Charise moaned, followed immediately with a surprised gasp as he easily flipped her into the middle of bed to give him better access. 

Her small hands immediately sought his chest hair, sighing happily much to his amusement, but his wry chuckles rapidly devolved into groans as she played with the golden hoops in his nipples. She snickered before sliding her delicate fingers across his torso to chart the rippling musculature of his arms and back, a wonderful side effect of hiking his beloved crossbow all over Thedas. 

Starting with her freckled shoulders, Varric traced the patterns with the tip of his tongue, relishing the erratic change in Charise’s breathing as he tenderly caressed her. While his mouth teased her upper body, his hands danced across her scarred abdomen in whirls, memorizing every inch of the roadmap that was her skin. Noble-born though she was, the time spent fighting left her marked, every hollow a testament to her bravery and willingness to stand, even in the face of insurmountable odds. 

His blunt fingers brushed the edge of a crater in her side. The jagged reminder left by the red lyrium that nearly stole her from him and his breath hitched. 

Leaving her collarbones, Varric’s lips whispered along the same trail his hands had already blazed across her midsection. Not yet silver, though no longer painful, it was easy to find, and the sight jarred him when he recalled the ten days he thought he would lose her when he hadn’t yet told her how he felt. His mouth touched her newest addition with the reverence of a penitent sinner begging for forgiveness and it dawned on Charise that was exactly what he was doing. The realization stunned her and she had to force herself to breathe. If she hadn’t been paying such rapt attention, she would have missed the tears trickling down his face, mixing with his soft kisses on her scarred flesh. 

Cradling his face delicately she tilted his head to grace him with a brilliant smile, her azure gaze overflowing with compassion as she thumbed away his guilt. Varric sucked in a ragged breath at the heat that roared in his chest as the love pouring from her passed into him. He recognized he’d never felt this way about Bianca and that cognizance shook him to the core. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that he loved Charise. No hesitation, no second guessing. It was a fact. And for the man who dealt in half-truths and exaggerations - it was a bombshell. 

The comprehension instantly transitioned their coupling into something softer and more intimate than anything either of them had ever experienced. Charise sighed as he tenderly kissed back up her body. His hands skirted around her full breasts, teasing the sensitive flesh with barely there grazes heightening her awareness with every blissful pass, leaving her panting and trembling with need. Her skin erupted into goosebumps as he lazily avoided the areas she begged him to touch. Chuckling richly, his tongue darted under her breasts, savoring the salty flavor where the roundness of her bust met her ribs with a heady moan. Charise keened when his large palms finally cupped her breasts. Expertly rolling her nipples, he replaced one hand with his mouth to lick and tease them into perfect rose-colored peaks, alternating to give each one his full attention.

“Varric,” she breathed. Tangling her fingers in his loose hair, she tugged on the roots, a rush of pride surging through her at the full-bodied groan that tumbled from his lips. Charise rubbed her dripping sex against his clothed thigh as he made love to her with his mouth, nearly sobbing with relief as his hands moved south again. 

Reaching her parted legs, Varric skimmed the soft skin of her inner thighs and she huffed in frustration. His blazing amber eyes held her captive, and Charise mewled as his mouth left her nipple with a muted _pop_. As his fingers inched closer to her scalding core, his torso leaned nearer her face, and she shivered with anticipation. His lips claimed hers at the same time his dexterous fingers dipped into her heat and they swallowed each other’s moans with zeal. 

Her blood boiled in her veins as his thick fingers rocked languorously inside her, his broad thumb purposefully brushing her clit with each thrust. Picking up the pace, he delved deep, seeking the spot that make her come apart. Curling his fingers and adjusting the angle while she rocked against him enthusiastically, he finally found what he sought. With calculated aim, Varric rubbed the bundle of nerves with every plunge until stars of light bloomed behind Charise’s scrunched eyelids. Clutching his shoulders, her nails dug into his cords of muscle seeking purchase in the oncoming storm. Wrenching her mouth away with a cry of pleasure, her hips bucked under his talented touch as he murmured endearments she could barely hear over the crashing of blood in her ears. 

Stilling, at last, Charise trembled with _want._ She wanted more; she _needed_ all of him. “Varric, _please,_ ” she begged. 

Kissing the tip of her nose, he shook his head before slinking down her lithe form wearing a smug smile. Tendrils of his loose hair tickled the sensitive skin of her legs causing her to suck in a ragged breath from the hyper-stimulation, a residual effect of her orgasm. Tearing his eyes from the beautiful sight of her glistening lips, he paused and pressed a sweet kiss to her thigh. 

“You okay? Need a breather?”

Charise propped herself up on her elbows and leveled him with a half-serious glare. “Maker help me, Varric, if you stop I will toss you over the balcony.”

Varric laughed, his eyes twinkling merrily. “I thought we agreed I wouldn’t be in danger of dwarf tossing.”

Pointing her finger at him imperiously, she tutted. “No, no. Iron Bull promised he wouldn’t toss you - I never said that. So... just watch yourself.”

“Well, I better get back in your good graces.” His voice deepened further with desire and _promise_. She squeaked lightly in response, her heart skipping beats, as the smug dwarven bastard she loved pinned her in place with an ardent stare. 

Holding her gaze, he lowered his mouth to her slick center, chuckling when a colorful stream of curses spilled from her lips as she collapsed backwards. Wadding the coverlet in her hands, the gasps and strangled litanies of approval spurred him on. Fully devoted to her pleasure, pride welled within him as she writhed under his talented mouth. His tongue flicked and swirled her clit in between longer licks. Suckling her lips gently, his nose nudged against the nestled bundle when his tongue dove deep inside to drink from her source. Sweet and bright and the slightest bit tart mingled on his taste buds and Varric groaned, the hum reverberating into the marrow of Charise’s bones as she arched off the bed, her thighs quivering in his strong grip as she tumbled over the edge again.

“Varric...please! I-I need...you,” she choked. Sprawled on her back, she reached out an unsteady hand to him and he sat up to stare at her with ravenous eyes. Dark hair tangled, lips red from biting them in ecstasy, breasts bouncing with every ragged breath – she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And she was offering all of herself _to him._

Varric smiled warmly, kissing her knuckles with a nod and she sighed in relief as he stood up on the bed. Her sapphire eyes flicked to his hands as he unlaced his breeches and let them fall. Charise cocked an eyebrow with a lascivious smirk and Varric burst into laughter, rolling his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. Thicker than any human lover, though of average length, she supposed it shouldn’t be surprising that dwarven stockiness translated to other places. 

“Come here,” she whispered as he knelt back on the bed, crawling up her body to kiss her. She tasted herself on his tongue and moaned in appreciation. Separating from her luscious mouth with difficulty, Varric rocked on his heels to line up his cock, slicking himself with her desire. Tossing her an affirming glance, Charise entwined her fingers through his free hand and smiled in assent. 

Squeezing her hand, he used their fused grip for balance on her hip as he slid inside. Groaning in unison as his girth filled her, sweat broke out on his back at the feel of her tight heat wrapped so perfectly around him. Blue eyes blown to black met his and his heart literally stopped until she smiled. Soft and tender, the one reserved for him alone, and it forced him to inhale sharply to regain a normal rhythm. 

Charise’s nails dug into his biceps as he thrust. Languid, fluid strokes that saw him nearly leave her body and then hilt on each return. She felt every vein, every pulse of his heart pounding in time with her own against her sensitive inner walls. Her senses heightened, completely tuned into his jagged sighs and mumbled praises. Entranced by his aromatic musk and the juxtaposition of hardened velvet stealing her breath as he urged himself faster. Rocking his hips rapidly, curses interspersed his adoration as he circled her clit with a broad thumb. 

Seeking, searching, chasing - jolts of electricity in her stomach shot along her nerves, coursing like lightning to vibrate her bones, the buzz in her head dulling all sound. Her skin erupted in goosebumps despite her increased temperature. Even with his firm grip on her hips, grounding her like stone, she felt as though she could fly. Pressure built in Varric’s groin, coiling tightly until it quickly settled in his balls - burning, tingling, rising steadily. His chest constricted as he watched her unravel at his touch. He wanted to kiss away the furrow in her brow as she crested, but she fluttered along his length, a subtle warning seconds before her walls tightened vice-like around him, and she shattered. 

His name fell in a glorious refrain from plump lips as she arched with a keen of bliss. Long legs held him in place as he rode out her orgasm, the additional friction sending him over the edge of his own peak with a hoarse groan as he filled her. When they finally stilled, he slipped from her body with reluctance, rolling next to her in exhaustion, their fingers entwining as they gasped in the sudden deafening quiet of her tower chamber. 

Varric’s whiskey gaze drank in the miraculous woman beside him. Blue eyes flashing brightly, dark hair hopelessly tangled, a smattering of love bites decorating her freckled collarbone. Smiling fondly at him, Charise’s free hand brushed back his loose locks, her fingertips sliding along his stubbled jaw with beautiful tenderness. His heart leapt in a valiant effort to escape the confines of his chest and burrow into hers, though he recognized she had long since captured it. 

Tossing her a lopsided grin, he lifted her hand to ghost his lips across her knuckles. “Well...I’ll be damned.”

“Andraste...that...” Charise wheezed, still attempting to regulate her breathing. Varric merely nodded as words failed him in the wake of such raw emotion. 

Neither one of them had the strength to stand and use the small washbasin in the storage room to clean up; they barely had the energy to crawl under the covers when the night air transitioned from cooling their overheated bodies to practically giving them frostbite. Charise possessed the presence of mind to close the bed curtains on her side of the bed, and Varric did the same on his. It would allow them to sleep in and keep nosy servants from getting a sneak peek of the disheveled couple in the morning. 

Snuggling against his chest, she sighed rapturously and Varric chuckled, the rich timbre booming in her ear sending delighted shivers down her spine. “Goodnight, Charise,” he murmured, an arm wrapping snugly around her exposed shoulders.

Glancing sharply at him, she noted the softness gracing his chiseled features, and she melted in his embrace. “Have you gone sappy on me, Varric?” 

He chuckled again, running his fingers gently over her silken knots, his heart constricting at her bleary hum. “My lady, you wound me. I can’t very well call you ‘Scrappy’ or ‘Your Inquisitorialness’ after we’ve had mind-blowing sex. Besides...it _is_ your name, isn’t it?”

Toying with the blanket of hair on his chest, she held his gaze under dark lashes. “Yes, but you don’t _do_ first names. You nickname everyone.”

Cupping her face in his large hands, he pulled her towards him, his lips so close they moved against hers when he whispered. “You are _not_ everyone. I’ll use your nicknames - hell, I’ll probably come up with more to fit every confounding part of your personality. But to me you will always be Charise.”

Their lips met in a passionate kiss. No other words were spoken between them - they weren’t needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me through these cavity inducing 2 weeks of fluffiness! Thank you to everyone who read the stories and commented, whether here or Discord/Tumblr. I appreciate you all so much and your sweet words of encouragement. I can't wait to do something similar in the future! 💛


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